EXCERPT
SOMEBODY LIKE YOU
Avon Impulse — June 19, 2012
She followed Kate out of the small office tying an apron around her waist and preparing herself to dive back into life in Deer Lick. She’d taken a leave of absence to attend her brother’s wedding. But she’d also come home to hide. To lick her wounds. To overcome her guilt. If that was even possible. She hadn’t quite planned to shovel cookies and cupcakes into white boxes, but that’s exactly what she was about to do.
As she passed him in the kitchen she gave her dad a quick kiss on the cheek then headed toward the front counter. A glance over the top of the glass display case indicated a number of patrons reading the menu or pointing out sugary delights they intended to take home. Kelly’s gaze skipped over the fresh Neapolitan ice cream colors of the shop, the vintage photo of her mom and dad on the Sugar Shack’s opening day, and came to a sliding stop near the door. Back turned toward her, a wide set of khaki clad shoulders blocked the summer’s glare off the patrol car parked outside.
She sucked back a groan.
Apparently karma wasn’t done playing gotcha.
Her hands stilled on the apron ties. Her heart knocked against her ribs. The knot in her stomach pulled tight. On the other side of the lunch counter stood another of her monumental screw-ups.
As if she’d called his name, he turned his sandy blonde head. His brown eyes brightened and a smile tipped the corners of lips that were sinfully delicious. She knew. She’d tasted them.
She took a wobbly step backward.
In her thirty-two years she’d been struck with accusatory scowls from a judgmental mother and murderous glares from convicted felons, but nothing had ever hit her below the belt like a smile bursting with sexual promise from one of Deer Lick’s finest.
Deputy James Harley.
His intense gaze perused her body like he was on the cruise of a lifetime and enjoying the trip. He’d looked at her that same way just a few months ago–braced above her on arms thick with muscle while the rest of his hot, hard body did the talking.
A tingle ignited from her head, sizzled like a fuse down the front of her shirt, and detonated beneath the zipper on her jeans. Her skin turned hot and a flush crept up her chest. All thanks to the memory of one night in James Harley’s bed.
As a deputy sheriff he’d sworn to serve and protect. During the hours she’d spent rolling in his sheets, he’d done both. At least from what she remembered.
The night of Kate’s wedding reception, Kelly knew she should have stayed focused on carrying out her maid-of-honor duties. But one too many glasses of exceptional champagne had dislodged a few of her bolts and screws and she’d completely given herself over to whim and mind-bending orgasms. Afterward, she’d made a promise to herself to get a serious handle on the sometimes uncontainable urges that never ceased to embarrass the hell out of her. Even if they did provide a real jolt of excitement.
She blinked away the sweaty memory of the hot, sexy man on the opposite side of the counter, sucked in a breath, and stepped up beside Kate. “What do you need me to do?”
“Could you box up that chocolate cake and then fill James’ lunch order?”
Crap. “Sure.” Kill me now. Please.
Her hands uncharacteristically trembled as she opened a pastry box and lifted Dr. Robinson’s double chocolate birthday cake from the display case. She didn’t know why her stomach was so keyed up. She’d spent the last seven years in the heat of the spotlight, prosecuting some of the dirtiest criminals in the state of Illinois, and she’d never once been nervous.
So why did taking a lunch order seem so damned intimidating?
With a smile she handed the pastry box over the counter to Dr. Robinson’s nurse and rang up the bill on the register. She closed the cash drawer and wiped her hands down the front of her apron, leaving a streak of chocolate. When she looked up hot cop was standing at the lunch counter. Muscled arms expanded from beneath his short uniform sleeves while the fitted shirt hugged his wide chest and slim waist. Kelly knew that beneath all that khaki fabric was a talented body of pure strength and muscle. A very talented body.
God, her thoughts were a train wreck.
She grabbed the pencil and order pad. “Can I help you?”
A smile crinkled the corners of his brown eyes and a slow blink swept long, dark lashes across his cheeks. “You’re back.”
“Apparently.”
He chuckled. “And you’re not happy to see me.”
“I’m not not happy to see you.”
“Okay then. I’ll take that for starters.”
Oh, no. His days of taking from her were over. She was on a save your soul and sanity mission. No boys allowed. “And what would you like to eat?”
The spark in his eyes guaranteed she wouldn’t need a Geiger counter to detect what he was thinking. “Sandwich, Deputy Harley. What kind would you like?”
“I’d like two tuna subs. No tomato. Two iced teas.” He settled a lean hip against the counter. “And your phone number.”
A laugh escaped before she could stop it. “That will be nine fifty-six.”
“Is that a no?” He reached into his back pocket, withdrew a worn leather wallet, and handed her a twenty.
Her fingers curled around the money. “I’m sure you have all the numbers you can handle.”
James held onto the cash. “I’d be willing to throw all those numbers away in exchange.”
SOMEBODY LIKE YOU | © Candis Terry 2012
EXCERPT
FOR LOVE AND HONOR
Avon Impulse — May 29, 2012
Chapter 1
When you grew up in a town the size of a flea circus anonymity became impossible.
There hadn’t been a chance in hell he could have slipped back in unnoticed. As an Army Ranger, Lieutenant Aiden Marshall had been to some of the most hellish corners on earth and no one had been the wiser. Except for maybe the enemy. Yet the moment he’d cranked the key in the ignition of his old pickup, it seemed the entire population of Sweet, Texas, had heard the engine catch.
Today he’d traded his fatigues for an old T-shirt and Levis, but the dog tags pressed against his heart verified he’d be a soldier until the day they put him in the earth.
He was damned lucky he wasn’t already there.
As he drove the winding road through pastures where longhorns grazed, he did not take for granted the faded yellow ribbons hugging the trunks of the large oaks that bordered the road. Those ribbons had been placed there for him and two of his best buddies. They’d all enlisted the same day. Survived boot camp and Ranger training together. Hit the sands of Afghanistan as one. Fought side-by-side.
He’d been the only one to make it home.
In the trenches they’d added one more friend to their unit. One more who’d proven faithful and trustworthy. One who’d offered comfort on dark nights and lonely days.
One more Aiden had to leave behind.
The pressure in his chest tightened as he lifted his hand in a wave to the group of seniors in jogging shoes waiting to cross the road. On the way to his destination, he could not ignore the joy on the faces of those who waved or shouted “welcome back” as he passed by. Those in his community knew none of the anguish that kept him awake night after night. They were just happy he had made it home.
His hometown had been hit hard by the loss of two upstanding soldiers, men who’d been his brothers in arms. Men he’d been honored to serve with. As a survivor, he felt none of the joy and all of the guilt. The hardest thing he’d had to face upon his return was the visits he’d paid to those heroes families. Looking them in the eye and expressing his sorrow for their loss when so much of it had been caused by his own miscalculations. Yet they’d taken him into their arms, offering him consolation he did not deserve. The thought still took his breath away.
On Main Street, beneath the old water tower where local businesses displayed patriotic signs and the flagpole in Town Square flew a pristine stars and stripes, Aiden eased his truck into the gravel lot beside Bud’s Nothing Finer Diner. Over the years the good people of Sweet had tried their best to make the town appeal to tourists. The apple orchards–like the one his family owned–had blossomed into bed and breakfasts, art galleries, antique shops, and wine rooms. Judging by the near empty streets, the place still had a long way to go.
In a space near the door he cut the truck’s engine, leaned back in the seat, and inhaled the aroma of chicken fried steak that floated in through the window on the warm summer breeze. Bud’s Diner was little more than a yellow concrete box, but since the day Aiden had been old enough to sit at the counter, he’d enjoyed extra thick milkshakes and homemade eats that made his mouth water. Even when he’d been halfway across the world. Bud’s was the first place the town folk gathered to mourn, celebrate, or discuss local politics.
He snatched the keys from the ignition and opened the door. Through six tours and countless missions in the Middle East, his mouth had watered for a slice of home. He was about to get his wish.
The bell above the door announced his arrival to the farmers and community members who huddled inside around tables nicked and scarred by years of diners with eager appetites. Marv Woodrow, a World War II Vet, stood on feeble legs and gave him a salute. Bill McBride, a Vietnam Vet, stood and gave him a one-armed hug and a fist bump. The rest also welcomed him home as he made his way to the counter. He graciously accepted their warm reception, though the soldier and friend inside of him rebelled.
Why was he still here when his friends were not?
He glanced around the diner at the wood-paneled walls and the Don’t Mess with Texas decor. As wonderful as the greetings had been, there was one welcome he’d looked forward to the most. Even though he wouldn’t enjoy giving her the news he had to share.
Back in the kitchen a good-natured argument surfaced.
“Pick up your own danged pickles, Bud. I’ve got my hands full of Arlene’s sweet potato fries, a buffalo burger, and Walter’s patty melt.”
“But the pickles are burnin’ in the fryer, girl.”
A feminine sigh of exasperation lifted above the lunchtime chatter and forks clanging on plates. At the sound, the tightness in Aiden’s chest eased and a rare smile pushed at the corners of his mouth. Before he could breathe, the owner of that sassy tone marched out of the kitchen.
“Here’s your melt, Walter.” She set an overflowing plate down in front of the old guy at the end of the counter. “Don’t be surprised if that hunk of meat finds its way back to the cow before Bud gets movin’ back there.”
Aiden picked up the plastic-coated menu he could recite blindfolded and watched her work. Quick hands. Sweet smile. Thick honey-colored hair pulled up into a ponytail that swung across her back. A pair of jeans hugged her slender thighs. A yellow Bud’s Diner T-shirt molded to her full breasts and small waist.
Good thing he was sitting down because his lower half was definitely standing at attention.
She swiped a towel over a newly vacated seat near the end of the counter. Catching a glimpse of a new customer from the corner of her eye she drawled, “I’ll be right with ya, darlin’.”
Two seconds later she set down the towel, pulled her order pad from the pocket of her apron, and made her way toward his end of the counter.
“What can I . . .” Pencil poised, her blue eyes lifted and that beautiful, plump mouth slid into a warm smile. “You’re back,” she said in a slow whisper.
A quick heartbeat passed while her gaze ate him up.
Then before he could blink, she launched herself into his arms.
FOR LOVE AND HONOR | © Candis Terry 2012
EXCERPT
ANY GIVEN CHRISTMAS
Avon Impulse — November 22, 2011
Game time.
Nothing in NFL quarterback Dean Silverthorne’s career of media blitzes, celebrity propaganda, and general mayhem had prepared him for the wedding day brouhaha in which he found himself immersed.
His formula for a happy marriage?
Stay single.
Not that he didn’t believe marriage worked. His parents proved it did with a thirty-six year union.
He just didn’t believe marriage would work for him.
Ever.
He’d been smart enough to figure out that mystery of life at the age of fourteen. While his seventeen year old cousin had stood inside the smallest chapel in Deer Lick, Montana and pledged his life to a girl he’d knocked up but barely knew, Dean had been rolling in the hayloft of old man Wilson’s barn. One hand firmly on third base beneath Cathy Carlisle’s pretty pink tank top. The other sliding into home beneath her grass-stained 501s.
The misery Dean witnessed that day on his cousin’s face had compelled him to make himself two promises. Never get suckered, lured, conned, or tricked into exchanging the dreaded I Dos. And never ever let anything or anyone stand in the way of his dream to become a star NFL quarterback.
At thirty-four he could claim success to both.
For twenty years he’d played it smart and safe. Touchdown passes and reliable condoms. Victorious teams and supermodels more intent on magazine covers than putting a Mrs. before their names.
In his book, weddings and all the frou-frou crap they entailed were more trouble than an intercepted pass on the final play of the game. For years he’d avoided such occasions. Yet here he was smack dab in the heart of matrimony central stuffed into the monkey suit he only hauled out for awards banquets.
As he stood inside Deer Lick, Montana’s local Grange he glanced around the spacious room and almost laughed. Someone with a very twisted sense of humor had transformed the plain white cinder block walls he’d known as a kid into some kind of girly circus tent with twinkling fairy lights. The long deceased masters who’d built this farmers’ fortress must have turned in their overalls.
Though an early December snowstorm blew a bitter cold wind outside the big metal doors, inside the corners were draped with autumn bouquets wrapped in gold ribbons that swirled toward the concrete floor. Dinged up folding tables had been covered by white cloths and mirrored centerpieces reflected the glow of tapered white candles. The entire display was an outrageous departure from the usual sparseness of the women’s Friday night Bingo games or the annual Texas Hold ‘em tournament that stunk up the place with stale beer and cheap cigars. Even Kate’s big-pawed pup, who sat perfectly humiliated near the gift table, had been bedecked with a pink satin tux.
The redhead who’d bullied him into attending the event waltzed by on the arm of her new husband. The bride—aka his baby sister—had the balls to wink at his obvious discomfort.
“How’s the shoulder, Dean?” Edna Price clamped an arthritic hand over his good shoulder and smiled. Her weathered face crinkled like an old dry chamois.
“Great.” Thankful for ditching the arm sling that label him as weak, Dean rotated his shoulder slightly. A simple movement to prove he wasn’t in agony for the pain pills that would temporarily numb the ache.
“Bull pucky.” His mother’s dearest friend shook her blue-haired coif. “The minute that Denver tackle drilled you into the turf I told your daddy you was gonna be in a big hurt.”
Dean’s lips compressed so tight the blood drained from them. Big hurt didn’t begin to describe the pain that had sliced through him after that hit. The pain that had twisted in his shoulder like a dull-edged razor. The air had been sucked from his lungs and he’d barely managed to get up off that field. In a haze of agony he’d lifted his hand in a wave to his team and the fans before they carted him away to the locker room for a series of x-rays and MRIs.
He smiled now at Edna, and the blood flowed back into his lips. He refused to display an ounce of weakness. Whining was for pussies. “Just another day at the office, Mrs. Price.”
The sympathy in the older woman’s faded eyes told Dean he couldn’t fool someone who’d had her own share of pain. “Well, we’re real proud of you son. And we’re sure lookin’ forward to the Stallions winnin’ a spot in the Super Bowl this year.”
“Yeah,” Dean grumbled. “Me too.” Only he wouldn’t be there to participate. And didn’t that just piss him off.
Last year he’d let his team down. The coveted Lombardi had been within their reach. But in the final forty seconds of the game he’d stayed too long in the pocket. The defense had been fast and his feet hadn’t been quick enough to buy time for his receiver to get in position. He’d over-compensated. The pass flew over the receiver’s head and into the gloves of the opposing team who took the ball in for the winning touchdown. A rookie mistake. And he’d been no damn newcomer to the game.
The vicious sack he’d received during the Thanksgiving Day game last month had drilled his already ravaged shoulder into the unforgiving turf. As a result, he’d been placed on the injured list for the remainder of the season—or longer if he listened to the bullshit they tried to feed him in rehab.
His team had lost that day and now his guys had to rely on the backup QB to take them to the show. He’d failed them twice. No way in hell would he fail them again. No. Way.
A few of the boys had visited him after the surgery—his third within four seasons on the same shoulder. They’d apologized for not having his back. And they’d sworn they didn’t blame him for the loss that day. But anyone with eyes could see their disappointment. Hell, it burned in his gut.
While the guilt blazed, he returned his attention to the present, determined to sail through the remainder of the matrimonial festivities and get back to the real world.
After a few quick anecdotes of life on the NFL Super Highway and a hug that smelled faintly of moth balls and Listerine, Edna Price moved on. Dean downed his crystal flute of champagne.
The doctors were wrong.
Damned wrong.
He’d prove it to them and everyone else of little faith.
“Well, well. The hometown hero returns.”
Fawn Derick, the first girl in Jr. High he’d managed to educate on the finer points of ‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ sauntered toward him in a little black dress and pearls.
Fawn no longer possessed the long, lithe body she’d once flaunted in tank tops, tight Wranglers and strappy little sandals. Now she had an excess of curves. Some natural. Some man-made. As she leaned in for an air kiss she pressed herself close enough for him to decide which was which. Even more impressive than Fawn’s after-market assets? The huge diamond on her finger she’d received from a rich Californian who played rancher.
“And you’ve just become more beautiful in my absence.”
Obviously flattered, Fawn leaned in for a full-breasted embrace. “Are you staying long?” she whispered against his ear.
Though Fawn had once been tempting and it might be fun to reminisce, for him, married women were more forbidden than women who salivated for a trip to the altar.
He gave a shrug that fired a spike of pain through his shoulder. “Once they break out the hokey pokey or the chicken dance, I’m outta here.”
Coffin black cat claws drifted down the sleeve of his Hugo Boss. “I meant are you staying long … in town.”
Not if he could help it. He had a life to get back to—one where a good time did not come with rules and attachments. Besides, he’d only be good for a day or two in his hometown before he became bored out of his mind. Or a target for females with big ideas.
The women in Deer Lick, God bless them, subdivided into three categories—single, married, and single again. They came in all shapes and sizes but they all had the same ambition—a band of gold around their finger and a ring through their intended’s nose. A wealthy NFL star quarterback like him made a prime target.
Fawn wasn’t the first tonight to let him know she might be open to a little action down at the Cottage Motel. As much as he hated to disappoint them, he didn’t do groupies, strangers, or anyone who may have a jealous significant other. He didn’t want to end up like the Ravens former Running Back who’d taken up with a groupie and ended up gut shot like an opening day buck. So to preserve his unrivaled reputation among the townsfolk and not to come off as a total ass, Dean turned on his aw shucks charm.
“Sorry, gorgeous, it would be great to get together like old times. Unfortunately I’ve got to get back to the team.”
Her hopes disintegrated with her smile. “But I thought—”
“Hey, big brother, they’re playing our song.”
With an exaggerated look of apology, Dean turned away from Fawn and her thinly veiled invitation toward his baby sister who gave him a smug smile that proclaimed she knew she’d just rescued his sorry ass. No doubt she intended to collect her reward later. So while Sinatra serenaded them, Dean swept his sister into his arms and out onto the dance floor. He’d deal with the painful repercussions later.
His heart gave a proud stammer when he looked down into her green eyes. Marriage may not be for him, but it already seemed to be sitting well with her. “Has anyone mentioned how breathtaking you are?”
“Just the man I married, you, and maybe a few dozen others. Who’s counting?” She gave him a wide grin and smoothed her hand over his injured shoulder in a motherly gesture. “You don’t look so bad yourself. A tux looks so much better on you than that stinky old football jersey.”
He chuckled to cover his flinch at even her softest touch. “That stinky old jersey generates million dollar contracts.”
“Happiness is not always about money, you know.”
“Is that how you convinced yourself to give up your glamorous Hollywood career?”
“Au contraire, big brother, I didn’t have to convince myself of anything. My career appeased me, but it never brought me deep satisfaction. You know, the kind that makes you go ‘Oh yeah. This is it.’ But that man right there …” She tilted her bridal veil toward her new husband as he waltzed by and twirled his 70-year-old partner in her orthopedic shoes. “… he definitely gave me my ah-ha moment.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean let his gaze drift so he wouldn’t insult her with an eye roll. “You were surrounded by the Spielbergs, DeNiros and Madonnas of the world. What could possibly make one small town deputy stand out above the rest?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Honesty. Heart. Compassion. Not to mention the toe-curling sex.”
His gaze snapped back. “TMI, Kate.”
Her laughter rang as light as Christmas bells. “Someday you’ll find the right woman and fall in love. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t fall in love.” He grinned. “Lust … is another matter.”
“Well, Mr. Perfect, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but you will fall in love. And when that happens, you will be shocked down to your jock strap. Because nothing else in this world will be more important to you than every breath she takes.”
The catered hors d’oeuvres in his stomach dive-bombed at his sister’s use of the nickname he’d earned after his first flawless season at USC. Mr. Perfect. He couldn’t claim to be perfect anymore. Far fucking from it. “I doubt it. There are still too many long-legged blonds out there.”
“Silly me. By the tabloid covers I see at the Gas and Grub, I’d have thought you’d already sampled them all.”
“Nope. Still a few left. When I’m done with them I’ll move onto the brunettes.”
“You can talk smack all you want, big brother. But I know the real you. And that party-all-the-time playboy image you portray, isn’t the real you.”
“Says who?”
She laughed. “Says me. Because dad would kick your ass if you were truly that disrespectful.”
Dean smiled. Kate was right. He had a deep appreciation for women. He didn’t mind that he could have any woman he wanted, but he didn’t expect it. And he certainly never took advantage. But where baby sister was concerned he had no intention of letting down his guard. Otherwise the next thing he knew she’d have him set up in some cozy little cottage with a white picket fence, a wife, and 2.5 kids. Family meant everything to him. But appreciation didn’t mean he had to have one of his own.
While Sinatra sang about flying off to far Bombay, their sister Kelly, middle child and kick-ass prosecutor, twirled and wobbled by in the arms of the best man. James Harley’s wild reputation spanned the Rockies. Not exactly Kelly’s brand of testosterone. Kelly tilted her head back and giggled.
Giggled? Sister Serious? No way. “Our sister appears to be drunk,” Dean said. “And flirting.”
Kate glanced over her shoulder. “She’s having fun. Leave her alone.”
“You’re not worried she might do something stupid?”
“She’s a big girl,” Kate said. “And she deserves to have a little fun. The case she’s on is ugly and tragic. She’s not eating and she’s losing sleep. So if she lets her hair down for a night who the hell cares?”
“Not me?”
“Correct. Not you. And not me.”
After another quick check on their tipsy subject, he conceded. “I guess a little happiness never hurt anybody.”
Concern wrinkled Kate’s forehead. “I want you to be happy too, Dean. With something more than throwing a football.”
“Careful, you’re starting to sound like mom.”
“Really?” Her smile brightened. “Maybe that’s not so bad.”
“This from the daughter who believed our mother out-wickeded the witch of the west?”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. We women are allowed to do that, you know.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “And the first thing mom would tell you would be to stop pushing yourself so hard.”
The look she gave him was all-knowing. But Kate didn’t know half of what she thought she knew. No one did. And no one would find out either.
Everything in his life was trashed. And for a moment, the tremendous losses stole his breath. He glanced away at the festive decorations. They reminded him of what his mother would create. Only this time she hadn’t. She hadn’t even been there to see her last born walk down the aisle.
Their mother had died suddenly a few short months ago. No warning. No goodbye. Just bam! She was gone.
His eyes stung and he blinked.
He missed her.
She’d been his biggest fan. And more times than not, his best friend. And it seemed as though now, Kate intended to pick up the baton.
“If that new husband of yours ever gets out of line, you better come to your big brother,” he said, steering the conversation away from himself.
“No way.” Kate tilted her head back and laughed. “If he gets out of line, I get to use the handcuffs.”
Go figure. Kate had found her paradise in a town with a population of six thousand. His paradise, however, was a thousand miles south in the Lone Star state on the deep green field of football dreams.
“Now, what’s this about mom?” he asked.
“Mom is …” Kate paused and looked over his shoulder. Then she gave him a faint smile.
Her odd comment snapped his attention back to the present and he found they’d waltzed toward the edge of the dance floor. “Mom is?”
“Never mind.” Kate stopped in front of two women who appeared to be in the midst of an entertaining conversation. One of them happened to be the little blond he’d escorted down the aisle just a few hours earlier. She turned toward them with laughter still playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Dean, this is my very good friend, Emma Hart.” Kate slipped his hand from her waist. “Why don’t you two dance and get to know each other better?”
Dean whispered against her ear, “Do not play matchmaker, Kate.”
As though she didn’t hear, Kate embraced the blond dressed in a strapless chocolate gown that hugged some pretty knock-out curves. “If he’s not nice, I give you permission to sack him.”
A smile and a wink later, Kate glided away, leaving him alone with a too short woman who looked too intellectual, seemed much older than the models he dated and, by the lack of gold on her finger, was most likely single and man shopping. Still, his sister would never forgive him if he didn’t display über politeness. He had no choice but to turn on the charm he usually reserved for the media after an opposing team had opened up a can of whoop-ass.
As Frank Sinatra faded away, the DJ put on a country ballad. What was it with all the hokey slow dances? Dean took his cue and extended his hand. “Well, Emma, very good friend of my sister Kate, would you care to dance?”
She looked up at him and sparks flashed deep in her unique Mediterranean blue eyes. Lips that looked marshmallow soft parted slightly and revealed the slightest space between her two front teeth. In an instant, studious turned to sexy and a deluge of testosterone flooded Dean’s system he couldn’t have held back if he’d been the Hoover dam.
She hesitated.
He held back a laugh.
Like she’d really turn him down?
She tilted her head and silky hair draped across her bare shoulder. He took that as a yes and reached for her hand.
“Thanks.” She tucked her hand behind her back. “But no thanks.”
ANY GIVEN CHRISTMAS | © Candis Terry 2011
EXCERPT
SECOND CHANCE AT THE SUGAR SHACK
Avon Impulse — July 19, 2011 | ISBN-13 9780062105226
Everything in Kate stopped cold. The blood drained from her head. Her ears buzzed. Her chest tightened the same as it had when she’d seen him earlier.
Matt’s mirrored shades were gone and she looked right into the ice blue eyes she’d once gone crazy for. The thick fringe of dark lashes surrounding those eyes only enhanced the mesmerizing hue—like arctic icebergs surrounded by a stormy sky. His cheekbones were sculpted, his jawline chiseled in a masculine way that said the boy she knew was gone forever. In his place stood a man. A real man—who smelled like autumn leaves and wood smoke and a lethal amount of sexy.
Earlier today she hadn’t been prepared for him, hadn’t been armed for his harsh words and his cold demeanor. But she was ready now. Bring. It. On.
She forced herself to look up at his strong chin and the etched curve of those lips she’d kissed so many times. Way back then they had been remarkably soft and tender. Now they were pressed into a hard, implacable line. Through their school years, he’d been a great-looking boy but now … now he just looked dangerous. The shiny star pinned to his broad chest didn’t help.
He gazed down at her through those pale eyes as if he could squash her like the ants crawling across the ground at their feet.
Okay, so she thought she’d been prepared for him.
Not the first time in her life she’d been horribly wrong.
Around them the night air swirled with the lingering aroma of pine and dewy blades of grass. The stars above twinkled brightly in the clear sky. And Kate wished she could just disappear in the dark.
“You lose your date?” she asked.
His lips tightened even more. “You lose your way home?”
“I’m here aren’t I?” She clutched the cold keys in her hand until they dug into her skin.
“Nice of you to show up. I’m sure your mother would be very happy.”
His words sucked the air from her lungs. “Okay, I get it,” she said. “You don’t like me. Can we at least be civil while I’m here?”
He shrugged one broad uniformed shoulder. “Sure.”
Behind them the steel door swung open with a screech. Out barged Edna Price. With her came the melody of Frank Sinatra singing My Way.
Edna looked up and smiled at Matt. “Gotta get home and put the dog out. Can’t leave her out for long though.” She turned a frown toward Kate. “All she’s good for is wandering.”
The old woman’s barb hit its mark. But, of course, Edna wasn’t done.
“Emma Hart’s in there looking for you, Matthew, honey. You don’t want to keep a good woman like that waiting.”
“I’ll make note of that.” Matt gave her a wave and a friendly smile as she hobbled away on her moose-head cane. “Good night, Mrs. Price.”
He turned back to Kate. “So how long are you staying?”
“Two days.” To guard against the icy daggers shooting at her she folded her arms across her breasts. “Think you can handle that?”
“Doesn’t really matter to me.”
“Well, at least you’re honest,” she said.
“At least one of us is.”
One hand slid to her hip. The other white-knuckled her purse strap. “I never lied to you. Exactly.”
“You never exactly told me the truth either. Would have been nice to know you’d been making plans to run away.”
“You knew I was waiting for that scholarship. I didn’t run away.”
He laughed. “Honey, your tennis shoes left burn marks in the road.”
She glanced across the parking lot for an escape. Her mother’s boat was four cars down. If she walked fast, she could be there in a few seconds.
“Have you been sitting around for ten years thinking up nasty things to say to me?” she asked, irritated with herself for standing there and letting him grind in the guilt.
“Hardly. I’ve got more important things to do.”
Before she could bite her tongue, she asked, “Like what?”
A smile curved his sensuous mouth. “Sorry, sweetheart, you lost the right to question me a long time ago.” His gaze cruised up her body, taking its time at all the appropriate places.
She knew that look. The one that said no matter how long ago it had been he remembered that the last time he’d seen her she’d been naked in his arms and moaning his name.
She remembered too.
SECOND CHANCE AT THE SUGAR SHACK | © Candis Terry 2011
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